short story

She did not look like the sort of woman who would become possessed. Her face was plain, pretty in some aspects, ordinary in others. She was neither fat nor thin, tall nor short. She was, as with so many other accused that Anayo had interviewed over the course of his career, unremarkable. Yet – and perhaps this was something to do with the way such stories were always told – when someone was meant to be demon possessed there were expectations that ought to be met. An iridescent beauty or a young maiden struck down by such affliction lent an air of tragedy to the story; a great sinner the assurance of justice.

Thin Forest was empty. Sometimes, upon entering, she would just catch a whisp of someone exiting the chamber. Maybe their coat whipping behind them as they left, maybe their shadow flickering a final farewell as they turned around the unseen corner. But that wasn’t the case today and Chika was glad that for once, Thin Forest was truly empty.

Thinking back, it was a rare moment of clarity to have given Mother Kisembo such insight into Maartje’s character. “You are a muddy sort of sentimentalist,” she’d said. “Whatever you hold, it doesn’t matter so long as you stick tight to it.”